


Not A Five-Times Fic

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A new mystery, my dear boy. Four deaths, three scenarios and yet, only two dead bodies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Five-Times Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warning.

_I entered the flat, expecting to see him stretched out on the sofa in the pose of languid passivity which had become custom to him over the long years in which neither of us had been very active. At least I had my wife to offer some distraction, although even that had grown tiring over time. For him - who's mind only thrived on activity - it had been hell. He'd almost stopped existing altogether. Which is why I had made it my duty to stop by at the flat at regular intervals. I wasn't exactly new, but it seemed that my presence still somehow managed to keep him tethered to our somewhat faded existence._

I expected a repeat performance of our routine, but instead of the usual akinesia, I found him in a state that was almost manic.

"My dear fellow," he cried upon my entrance. "I have finally overcome the stagnation. A miracle!"

I must have stared at him somewhat dumbfounded, for he motioned me to sit in my usual spot on the sofa and pressed a sheet of paper into my hand. "A new mystery, my dear boy. Four deaths, three scenarios and yet, only two dead bodies. How does that sound?"

I blinked at him. "Impossible, I would believe."

"Ha!" he ejaculated. "Quite so! And yet it is entirely true. If you would cast your eye upon those lines it will all become clear in a moment."

I did as he asked me and perused the writing on the paper he had just thrust at me.

 

1\. Remember  
"Remember, remember the fifth of November..."The voice sounds strangely distorted and far away.

"Why did you follow me?"

John smiles. Because that's what I do, he wants to say, but the words won't form. His tongue isn't doing what he wants it to and the smell and taste of blood are overpowering his senses, making it hard to think clearly. He half expects Sherlock to scold him for not being as quick-thinking as he should be, but the words never come. Instead Sherlock is repeating the nursery rhyme.

"... the gunpowder treason and plot..." No, wait. That's not Sherlock speaking. That's him. How strange.

Sherlock is shaking him now and he isn't quite sure why. It's distracting, painful, and he wants to tell Sherlock to stop it, to just let him sleep...

Except. He doesn't. He doesn't tell Sherlock and he knows that's bad. He should be angry, but he hurts. Everything hurts now. His chest, his legs, his arms. Even his eyes hurt. He shuts them to keep away the pain, but it's not really working.

John can remember being in this much pain before and he knows that it's not good. He also remembers the taste of blood in his mouth and the desperate hands on his body, pressing, twisting, shaking. And... oh, that's it, isn't it. He's got it now.

He's dying.

The thought makes him open his eyes again. He's still speaking, even though he can't remember how to form words.

"... why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot."

Sherlock is looking down at him. His hands are still now. John can feel them pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe that's the blood in his lungs. He coughs, tastes a new wave of blood in his mouth and tries to spit it out. Sherlock's arm snakes under his neck, lifts his shoulders, supporting his head against Sherlock's upper arm. The movement hurts, but he's breathing a little easier now.

He reaches up, touches Sherlock's chin in a silent thank you. He leaves behind a smear of blood. It looks garish against Sherlock's pale skin. Like smudged lipstick.

His eyes are heavy, but he refuses to shut them. Sherlock is speaking and he needs to pay attention. If Sherlock says something, it's important.

"Such an idiot, John." But there's no edge to it.

I'm sorry, he wants to say. It's not your fault.

It always did feel like borrowed time. This year since Afghanistan.

His vision is blurring, darkness creeping in around the edges. He knows it means death is closing in. Nothing much anyone can do about it. Maybe if there was a doctor here. An ER. Or even just a cell-phone signal. But there's no-one. Just him and Sherlock and the dead Guy Fawkes wannabe. Somewhere underneath the Parliament.

Mycroft will be pleased.

He's cold. Something is pressing against his lips, warm and dry. He wants to smile, wants to tell Sherlock that yes, me too, but it's too much effort.

"It's okay, John," he hears.

The rest ist silence.

 

2\. Phonecall  
The buzzing of the phone woke John. He took a few moments to consider ignoring it. The only people to call him that late at night were Sherlock or Harry and he didn't feel like dealing with either tonight. Next to him, Sarah shifted restlessly. The phone kept buzzing insistently. If he didn't make a decision soon she'd wake and he didn't feel like warming up the old fight again.

Supressing a sigh, he pushed the duvet back, grabbed the phone off the nightstand and tip-toed into the livingroom. He checked the caller ID. Sherlock.

"I was sleeping." He said, making his voice sound more annoyed than he really was.

"I'm sorry."

John straightened instinctively at the sound of Sherlock's voice. "What's wrong."

There came a weak laugh at the other end of the line. "Who said something was wrong?" He sounded strained.

"Sherlock," John said, more worried now.

For a moment there was only laboured breathing. "Never could keep anything from you, John."

John had heard that kind of tone before. It was the tone of someone who knew they were dying. "Sherlock. Where are you?"

"Too far away. There's nothing you can do."

"Sherlock-"

"No. Listen. John." Sherlock's voice was faint. He didn't have much time left. Every fibre in John wanted to move, to rush off and find Sherlock. To save him. But Sherlock was alone. Dying. And here he stood in his damned living room, too far away to do anything about it.

He forced himself to listen. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm not angry. You made the right decision."

"What?"

"I know you were wondering why I didn't come to the wedding. I forgot." Another weak chuckle. "I'd intended to make a point of not going, but I'd changed my mind. And then I forgot."

"It doesn't matter-" John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"But it does. It's important that you know. You're special, John. To me."

"Sherlock, please..." And wasn't that typical. Sherlock telling him now, when it was too late. Except - it wasn't, was it. As usual he was right. Just knowing it mattered.

"Be happy, John."

The line clicked dead.

"I love you too." John told the static.

 

3\. Resignation  
They found the bodies in the living room. Sherlock was half sitting against the side of the desk. Eyes staring blankly towards the doorway. There was a thin trail of blood, almost dry now, running from his forehead down to his chin. It almost looked like he was crying bloody tears.

John lay on the floor next to him, face down. A puddle of blood was drying on the floor around him. He was wearing a grey, woollen sweater. The one that Lestrade had seen Sherlock wear on more than one occasion. John's hand was wrapped around Sherlock's ankle.

It took Lestrade a while to spot the gun, Sherlock's fingers closed around it's hilt. One of his men knelt down and checked it. Reported it to be a Browning. Most likely John's old service weapon.

It was almost eerie, watching his people work the scene. They were used to seeing death and destruction, and normally there was a low murmur of every-day chit-chat flying back and forth while they were processing. Not so today. Everyone was working silently, faces serious. It made Lestrade want to laugh hysterically.

It had been a running joke at the Met that Sherlock would turn into a killer at some point. When John Watson moved in there had even been bets as to who would kill whom first. But nobody – it appeared – had expected it to actually happen. No, Lestrade thought, he didn't want to laugh. He wanted to throw up.

-

They never found out what exactly had happened. It appeared to be a straight forward murder-suicide and that's what went into the official file.

Sherlock Holmes had shot Dr John Watson straight to the heart sometime around midnight on November 24th, then committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. There was no other evidence that suggested outside involvement.

Except. Something didn't feel right. Even months after they'd finally closed the case, Lestrade would take out the file, look at the photographs and go over the notes. But there was never anything that stood out. Some days, he wished he could ask Sherlock about it.

-

The letter arrived on the third anniversary of Sherlock Holmes' and John Watson's deaths. They arrested Molly Hooper two hours later. Lestrade was there, even though he wasn't the Detective in charge.

"Why did you do it?" they asked her, later, in the interrogation room.

She looked at the double-sided mirror when she answered. As if she knew Lestrade was watching.

"Because he thought I was stupid. But in the end, I fooled you all. Even him."

Lestrade resigned that evening. He'd had enough.

 

 _"What madness is this?" I cried, once I had finished reading those gruesome accounts._

He was standing in front of the sofa, looming over me and rubbing his hands excitedly. "Not madness! Don't you see it? It's life returning!"

I stared at him, surely he had gone mad. Maybe the drugs had finally destroyed his brain. He reached out and ripped the paper from my my hands. Then he turned and grabbed his laptop from the desk. He shoved it at me.

"Look at this! Just look! There are stories here. Hundreds and hundreds of stories. Mysteries to solve, murders to uncover, treasures to be found and lost again. I shall never again have to complain about boredom!"

I looked at the screen with dread. From what I had just read, I expected to see an abundance of blood and gore and every abhorrent thing humanity could conceive in it's twisted minds.

"Do not be afraid, my dear boy." He said, fondly. "It is not all death and destruction. If you just read that first page you will find that there are also lives to be lived. Lives for you and me, to revel in as we please. Not restrained by societal norms and conventions."

He sank down onto the sofa beside me and took my hand. "Do you remember what I once said to you? 'If we could fly out of that window hand in hand...'. Come with me, my friend. This is meant for us."

There was such sincerity, such longing in his voice, who was I to refuse him?


End file.
